15. Don’t Worry, It’s Going To Die Soon
Don't Worry, It's Going To Die Soon
I don’t remember whether I jumped out as far as I could, and I don’t remember whether I rolled when I hit the ground.
I only remember the loud crash of the airship hitting the rocks and which body parts slammed into the ground first—my knees—which parts scraped along the rocks—my entire right side—and which parts still rang with the impact—my teeth.
My face lay in the dirt as I took an inventory of my injuries. At least I was pretty sure I could still feel all of my extremities, because they all seared in pain. I rolled over onto my back. The clear sky was so bright it hurt to crack an eye open.
Where was Griffon?
I struggled into a semi-seated position, wincing as my right side screamed in pain. My dress and cloak were torn in several places. The gondola lay on its side. The envelope tugged at the ropes as the wind still pulled the balloon south.
And then there was the blood. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Screeching skylark, was I really seeing that?
Oh, gods, I was.
The first puddle was two meters to my left, around where some jagged rocks stuck out of the outcropping. I scrambled past the puddle and followed a crimson trail around one of the large, weathered boulders.
With breaths coming in shallow bursts, Griffon sat against a rock next to his discarded overcoat, struggling to fasten his leather belt around his left bicep.
There was blood everywhere. I made it to him, ignoring my protesting extremities, and tried to tramp down the nausea from the thick smell of copper in the air.
“Let me do that,” I insisted, grabbing the end of the belt, feeding it through the buckle and pulling it tight. The gash was on the underside of his arm, right below the elbow.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Blood still flowed from the wound.
“No, not bad. Give me your knife.”
Not waiting for him to get it, I handed him the taught belt, grabbed the hilt sticking out of its sheath at his waist and pulled the knife free. Yanking up my dust-covered skirts, I cut a large strip of cotton from the bottom of my petticoat.
“Never thought I'd be grateful for excessive undergarments,” I muttered. It was the cleanest fabric I was wearing. I pressed the wad of cotton against his wound as he hissed and jerked back. “Lift your arm up over your head. I’ll keep applying pressure.”
It soaked through quickly, so I cut another strip and put it over the first. He rested his head against the rock behind him and closed his eyes while we waited for the blood to clot. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and dark circles stood out in relief against his already pale face.
I didn’t know how much blood was too much to lose.
But as I looked around at what could be the scene of a brutal murder, I figured this was pretty close.
He must have severed something when he landed against those sharp rocks.
Maybe the median cubital vein? Gods, I hope it wasn’t the brachial artery.
I waited a few more minutes to be sure the outside of the second wad of cotton remained white under my fingers.
“You can loosen the belt now.”
I gently lowered his arm. His breathing had steadied, but his eyes remained closed.
His right hand slipped from the leather and fell limp onto his lap.
He looked like death itself. I held the wad of fabric a moment longer before cutting another strip and securing it around his forearm, keeping the dressing in place.
I settled next to him against the rock, closing my eyes for a few minutes.
We still had hours before sunset. Everything still hurt, but it felt insignificant compared to the agony he must be enduring.
He would need water soon and food too. Our food had been lost when the ropes were severed, but perhaps I could find something in the gondola’s compartments.
With a groan, I pulled myself to my feet, my protesting joints complaining with every step, and made my way back to the airship.
The now much shorter petticoat beneath my dress felt odd as I walked.
I yanked off the cloak that was hanging from my neck by a thread.
The fabric of my dress near my knees had torn, and the shoulder was ripped as well.
Blood and dirt stained the rest of the fabric that remained intact.
The skin on my arms burned, so I assumed some of the blood on me was my own.
As I pushed my hair from my face, my fingers came away slick with crimson from a wound near my temple.
And my hair. By the stars, my hair. Hours of it whipping in the wind and rain had turned it into a snarled and matted bird’s nest.
With the gondola on its side, it took little effort to climb in.
I opened all the cabinets and rummaged through the mess.
The previous owners were not organized people.
I found a threadbare blanket, a waterskin filled with what smelled like whisky, and a satchel that contained one of their midday meals—an apple, a small loaf of bread, and a chunk of cheese. No first-aid supplies and no water.
“You’re not going to like this,” I warned him when I returned, “but I found something to clean your wound. Let’s eat first, though. I want to make sure the blood clots completely before I take off the bandages.”
“Is there any water?” he asked. His hair fell into his eyes, softening the sharpness he tried so hard to keep.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Splitting the small meal between us, I slyly gave him larger portions. When we finished, I cut some more strips from my petticoat to replace the bandages and looked at the knife.
It would be sharp enough, and there was no way I would ever get a comb through it again.
I suppose 'disheveled crash survivor' was a look.
Not a good look, but a look. I grabbed a chunk of my hair and sliced it off at my shoulder.
He watched me, but said nothing as I grabbed the chunk on the other side and did the same thing.
I tried pulling the pieces at the back around so I could reach them.
“Here, let me,” he offered, holding out his hand for the knife. I handed it over and turned around. “It’s probably for the best,” he continued as he sliced through the strands. “There wasn’t any saving it.”
“How comforting. Next you’ll tell me it gives me character.”
He snorted.
I turned back around as he looked over our handiwork. He tilted his head and then gently tucked my hair back behind my ear. I froze at the touch of his warm fingertips. It was a simple thing, and yet it confused me. It felt oddly intimate. I wasn’t sure what to think until he started speaking.
“Cut another small piece of fabric. You’re bleeding.”
Oh, well, that makes sense. I shook off the strange feelings.
He handed me the knife, and I cut off a strip. I tried not to stare at his face as he leaned in and blotted a spot above my temple, just inside my hairline.
“It’s not deep. And most of it’s already dry.”
“Good. I was worried I'd have to sacrifice more petticoat. At this rate, I’ll be indecent by morning.”
He snorted again. I was pretty sure the blood loss was making him delirious.
Once he finished, I set about the process of carefully peeling off the blood-soaked cotton and what remained of his shirt sleeve.
The wound was a grisly mess, with the deepest part of the long laceration closest to his elbow.
It was still oozing blood and other fluids, but I didn’t have the supplies to stitch it up.
Cleaning it and re-bandaging it were our only options.
He braced himself as I tipped the waterskin over the wound. When the whiskey met the laceration, he went rigid, a low growl rumbling from his throat. His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat streaming down his face.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I pleaded as I hurried to put on the clean dressing.
His eyes remained closed, taking deep breaths.
“I found a blanket. It’s not great, but it’s something. We should rest here tonight and see how you feel in the morning.”
“No. We have to get away from the airship.”
I startled at his answer. “What? Why?”
“They know we’re here. I’m sure they watched the balloon go down.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
He opened his eyes and looked at me. The verdant hue was such a contrast against his pale, dirt-streaked face. “We’ll not make any friends in Solis. This kingdom has outlawed foreigners for the past 60 years. Slave traders are probably already on their way to our location.”
I felt my eyebrows go up into my hairline. “Slave traders?” And the hits just kept on coming.
“We need to get moving when I can gather the energy. If we can make it back to the base of the mountains, we might find some shelter before nightfall. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even find water.” He shook his head. “But then, with our luck, it doesn’t feel promising.”
“Maybe we’ll find a nice mirage instead. I hear they’re very refreshing.”
With that, he tried to stand while allowing me to help him—which I took to mean he must be in pretty bad shape. He braced himself against the rock and took a deep breath. I handed him his overcoat and dagger.
“Bring the blanket. The temperature’s going to drop when the sun goes down,” he breathed as he took an unsteady step forward.
Slowly, we made our way north toward the mountains, the rocky outcropping gradually giving way to sand. The dune field stretched before us, with some mounds rising so high that the mountain peaks were blocked from view.
“How are we going to get over the mountains?” I asked.
“In that direction,” he panted, pointing northwest, “is the Porta Ravine. Tomorrow, we’ll move west along the range until we find the opening.
That will take us back to Volantia. We’ll have to be careful, though.
Lucidus, the capital city, is just past it.
We have to give it a wide berth and avoid their sentries. ”
We trudged up the slip faces and down the windward sides of the dunes. My calves burned with the effort, but the mountains didn’t seem to get close enough, fast enough.
I worried about him. He swayed as he trudged through the sand, clutching his left arm awkwardly against his chest. My throat was as dry as the desert around us, but he seemed to stay more alert if I kept him talking.
“Do you think we could sneak into Lucidus and get some supplies and maybe some water?”
“No. We need to avoid the city at all costs.”
“More slave traders?”
“Well, yes,” he paused, “but there’s also a fairly large bounty for my capture. It wouldn’t go well for us.” His breathing was shallow and ragged in the dry air.
I turned to look at him. “What did you do?”
He said nothing for so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer at all.
“I assassinated their king five years ago.”
My mouth dropped open. “The King of Solis?” Oh, is that all? Just regicide. Nothing major.
He took a deep, stuttered breath. “Yes. His brother, Faisal, is king now.”
“Why would Queen Vesna have you do that?”
“I’m not privy to the whys, but I can only assume it had to do with opening up the mineral trade routes. The former king wouldn’t allow commerce between the kingdoms, even though his people were suffering through a famine.”
“But why not allow it? Wouldn’t it benefit both kingdoms?”
“Old wounds don’t always heal, I guess. They say it concerns a missing relic. There’s a story about King Faisal’s grandfather’s sister—I guess she would have been his great aunt—falling in love with a Volanti who opened a weaving shop in Lucidus.”
The desert sun hung heavy over the endless sea of sand, bathing it in an orange-gold haze. Each step was a struggle in the arid air as the late afternoon heat shimmered off the dunes.
“But I thought they outlawed foreigners,” I croaked through my parched throat.
“This was…65 years ago. After this, they did.” He paused as he stumbled slightly before regaining his balance.
“King Malik, Faisal’s grandfather, wouldn’t allow his sister to marry the Volanti and arranged a marriage with a Soli nobleman instead.
Rather than marry the nobleman, she hung herself from the scaffolding around the altarpiece in their fire temple.
The Volanti, I think his name was Hermes, stole the relic from the throne room.
He refused to tell them where he’d hidden it.
So they held him in the Lucidus dungeon until he starved himself to death. ”
“That’s horrible! He should have just let them marry.” I said through cracked lips.
He took a long, uneven breath. “Well, the man wasn’t just Volanti. He was a former Empyrean monk.”
“From the Citadel?”
His face was haggard and pale under the dust, the edges of his features drawn tight as he nodded.
“He taught her to worship the stars and not to fear the night, like the religion of the Sideri. Our old gods. The Soli people only worship the sun and believe that darkness is filled with evil spirits. It went against everything they believed. They consider it blasphemous to worship any other sun but our own.”
“Ugh,” I groaned. “Why, in the welkin, would they worship the source of this blistering heat?”
He huffed a short laugh. “Don’t worry, it’s going to die soon.”
I whipped around. “What?”
“Their sun god, Helios. They believe he travels across the ecliptic each day as a phoenix, dies, and then is reborn again to do it all over again at dawn. They say he gave the original Soli King the Staff of Helios to help protect them from the darkness while he’s gone.”
“That sounds exhausting. No wonder he’s so grumpy and hot all the time.”
The world around us seemed so vast, with the mountains still distant and far beyond reach. The sun, the god of this land, was descending to its demise, casting long shadows across the sand.
“And it was the headpiece of that staff that was stolen.” He took a few more breaths before continuing.
“It’s adorned with the Daystar Opal, a gemstone that glows with liquid fire in its depths.
It was the symbol of their people. In King Malik’s grief at losing his sister and the most precious relic in the kingdom, he closed the borders.
Foreigners were enslaved, or worse, killed. Trade stopped.”
“Until five years ago.”
He nodded. “Some trade resumed. King Faisal…” He took a few more breaths, “…must have been more open to cross-border commerce than his brother.”
His pace was slowing. We needed to find water soon.
We crested a slipface, and without warning, the drift beneath us shifted and collapsed. Sand erupted and sprayed up around us.
And then they appeared from beneath the dune—figures concealed in billowing tan robes, balaclavas and goggles. The sun flashed off the deadly steel blades of their long, curved swords.